For he was the scent of old books
The gentle flickering of a wick of a perfumed candle
The swift dash of breath before a kiss
The feeling of listening to a song from an erstwhile era
The loving sigh of a newlywed
He was the quick glance at a loved one
The infatuation of one inexperienced youth upon another
The longing of an antiquated unrequited love
Yet he was the loneliness of night
The cold breathlessness of rejection
The tear-stained cheeks of an unloved being
The tousled hair of an amour reminiscent of a first love
He never knew how he captivated all who saw him
How the spark of life in his eyes intrigued everyone
The crinkles in his eyes as he laughed
How he ran his hand through his ebony hair
How I always felt as though we were meant to be more
We were a paramore
No one could ever know how we felt
So thus he became the melancholy feeling of a cast-off memory
The emptiness of a friend once treasured
Yet he would always hold that intrigue
The stolen glances were enough to fuel days
If only he knew
He was poetry in of himself.
